


Epiphany

by leiascully



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, Twelfth Night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For twelve nights, Sif dresses as Caesario and woos the Lady Illyria with Loki's poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLadySif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadySif/gifts).



> A/N: Loki steals from e.e. cummings, because why wouldn't he?  
> Disclaimer: No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

He comes to her in the sparring yard, which intrigues her. She and Loki used to train together when they were younger, but they have not fought each other in many years. But there he is when she lifts her sword, casually hefting his own blade. 

"Lady," he says, bowing his head briefly.

"My lord," she says, steel ringing on steel as her blade slides against his. "What will you?"

"A match, and nothing more," he says, parrying her thrust.

"I know better than that," she says, cutting at him. "You would not seek me here unless you sought more than a sword. You might match any here."

"None here is a match for me but you, lady," he says, his voice as smooth as the way he defends himself, both practiced. 

"Come, my lord," she says. "We have spent too long in each other's company to play these games."

"As you wish," he says, putting a little more weight behind his sword. "As it happens, I have a modest proposition for you. If I best you here, you'll help me with a task. A mere trifle, really, but it merits your finesse."

"And if I best you?" she asks.

He smirks as their swords kiss and slide again. "Then I shall owe you a favor, Lady Sif. Anything you ask."

"Anything?" she asks, nearly coming in under his guard. "I should warn you, my lord, I'm feeling quite imaginative."

"Anything," he promises, though she knows what his word is worth. 

She lets him win, though she puts up enough of a fight that he might believe that he has beaten her honorably, or as honorably as Loki ever might.

"Come to my rooms after dinner," he says, his eyes bright. He is breathing quickly with the effort and the excitement. She hears the gentle creak of his armor as his chest heaves. There is more color in his cheeks than usual. He wears it well. "I will introduce you to what needs to be done."

"That would be a trifling task indeed," she quips, looking him over.

"Oh, Lady," he says. "How you jest." There is warmth in his voice, and promise enough to thrill down her spine. She minds her expression, gazing steadily at him. "After dinner?"

She opens her hand in a gesture of surrender. "As you wish, my lord." 

"Wear something easily removed," he says. "The tailor will need to take measurements."

She narrows her eyes. "I am not sure I like this task of yours."

"I'll avert my gaze," he assures her playfully. "You needn't worry. No lace, no ribbon. Nothing like the incident with the Fire Maidens."

"Remarkable that they managed to wear anything at all," Sif says in a dry voice. 

"All the better for you to camouflage yourself among them," Loki tells her, humor in his voice. "I would have hated to think of you bereft of any cover. Although it was certainly warm enough in that cavern."

"Next time that you and Thor seek an ancient artifact stolen from your ancestors, you may wear the disguise," Sif says. "It's little concern of mine." 

"You'll be pleased enough with this particular endeavor," Loki reassures her. "Or you may take it out on me on the sparring grounds."

"I have never needed your permission for that," she says. 

"Nevertheless," he says. 

She inclines her head. "I look forward to it."

\+ + + +

She knocks on his door after dinner. She felt him glance at her a few times during the feast, but she made certain that their eyes never locked. She did not trust her face not to reveal the intrigue she felt. Now she shifts from foot to foot, freshly bathed and in loose robes, her hair damp and her belly comfortably full.

Loki answers the door himself, which is surprising, or at least, the door opens without a servant behind it. 

"Our little secret," he greets her. 

"Two people may keep a secret," she says, casting her eyes at the tailor.

Loki smirks. "So they may," he says, "or so they say. Lady Sif, my personal tailor, who can certainly keep a secret, and who is exceptionally deft with a needle. You will need several changes of clothing for this particular caper. My tailor will be happy to oblige."

Sif, head held high, doffs her robes and stands before the tailor in the fitted leggings and bodice she wears under her armor. The tailor does not seem to speak, but he makes his wishes known well enough. Loki lounges in a chair, pretending to read; Sif notices the pages do not often turn. 

"Come back in three days," he says when the tailor has finished. "We'll begin then."

"Begin what, exactly?" Sif demands, but Loki merely smiles and ushers her out of his rooms.

"Three days," he says. "Good night, lady."

"Good night," she says out of habit, and sweeps away down the corridors to her rooms. 

\+ + + + 

Three days later she knocks again, and again the door swings open all on its own. There is no tailor this time, only Loki, silhouetted by the fire. He gestures to a neatly-folded pile of clothes. 

"For you, Lady Sif," he says.

"How kind, my lord," she says, running her hands over the tidy heap. There are tunics, ungenerously cut, and trousers, and long robes to go over them. Underneath it all is a wide band of fabric that gives a little when she tugs at it. "What's this?"

He waves vaguely at her chest. "You won't pass for a gentleman with those particular endowments, I think."

"I see," she says, and she does. There was a time, when she was much, much younger, that she thought to bind her breasts and shear off the dark waterfall of her hair and earn her honor under another name. But that day passed, and she earned her shield under her own name. She has more breasts to bind now. 

"Try it on," he says, pointing to a carved screen. 

"Which?" she asks, holding up two shirts.

"Whatever suits you best," he says. She selects trousers and a shirt, folds them over her arm along with the binder, and goes behind the screen. Through the carving, she can see the warmth of the firelight and the vague outline of Loki's restless form. 

"Explain," she says, shedding her robes. 

"There is a lady I wish to court," Loki tells her. "Or wish to become better acquainted with, at any rate."

"Then court her," Sif says, tightening the strap of the binder around her chest. She exhales, trying to make her bust flatter. The shirts will be a moderately snug fit even if she manages to subdue her breasts. 

"Alas," Loki says, "my reputation precedes me. So, my lady, you shall court this woman in my stead."

"Shall I?" Sif says, tugging the shirt on. "I fear that I am not known for my seductions."

"No," Loki says in a wry voice. "I fear that you are not. Fortunately, you will have my honeyed words to trip off your tongue." He pauses. "You did lose our wager, my lady."

"I did not imagine my penance would be so...imaginative," Sif says, adjusting the trousers. She steps out from behind the screen, feeling bold and bashful all at once. Loki looks her up and down, letting his eyes drag over her, and then he smiles.

"I don't suppose you'd think about cutting your hair," he suggests.

"No," Sif says, and there's steel in it. 

Loki shrugs. "There are ways to deal with that," he says. "You look quite dashing, my lord."

Sif lifts her chin and tries to swagger. "And how shall my lady call me?"

"Caesario," Loki says. 

"Caesario," Sif repeats, pitching her voice suitably deep. 

"My little joke," Loki says. 

"How shall I know this woman?" Sif asks. 

"Here is a map to the bench below her window in the gardens," Loki says, passing her a paper, "and here is the first poem you shall read to her. I suggest you begin tonight. There is little more enchanting than a full moon and a verse that drifts up with the perfume of the roses." He glances at her again. "Your illusion may benefit from the dark. She will believe it later with less convincing, but perhaps it should be born in the shadows." He lets his eyes drag over her slowly this time. "Wear a robe or a jacket. Your curves declare the truth."

"You look too closely," Sif tells him in her Caesario voice. 

"And so might my lady," Loki says, laughter winking in his words. "But I trust you'll improvise if it comes to that." 

"Surely," Sif says, rolling her eyes.

\+ + + + 

She feels strange, standing on a bench in the garden under the moon reading poetry, but after a stanza, the lady of Loki's machinations comes out to lean over her balcony, her dark hair flowing down over the pale sleeves of her dress, her dark skin luminous under the stars. 

"How now, sweet Illyria?" Sif says gruffly. "Thy virtues outnumber the stars, yet shine not so bright."

"Who speaks?" Illyria asks. Her voice is husky and welcoming.

"Caesario," Sif says. "I am new to court, and newly struck by your beauty." She rolls her eyes at Loki in her mind. 

"Speak, Caesario," Illyria says. "I'll listen." 

So Sif does, reading the words Loki has given her. And she comes back the next night and the next, to read more poetry under the slowly waning moon as Illyria lingers on the balcony above her and gazes down.

Some nights there are messages that seem less for the lady above and more for Sif herself, shamming manliness. There are verses that praise Illyria's prowess with a weapon. The lady in question smiles and sighs, and the firm line of muscle dimly visible underneath the shimmering fabric of her dress promises that the praise is not false, but it plucks a string inside Sif. There is some particular cadence in the words, some half-remembered phrase that she would swear Loki said to her once, after a battle, for her ears only. There is a question woven into the lines, obliquely; Sif is not certain what it asks, but she hears the lilt of it in her own voice.

When she retires to her room and divests herself of her costume, she reads over the lines again, tracing the curves of Loki's script with her eyes, hunting down the hints as she has always hunted her prey: devoutly, without ceasing. She stays up until the moon has nearly set, searching for an answer that outpaces her, and falls asleep next to the fire.

Loki, for his part, merely hands her another folded paper and raises one eyebrow.

"You look tired, my lord Caesario." 

"I was up late," she says. "The thrill of the chase, which you must know well."

"I might say the same," Loki tells her, running his fingers over the spines of a few of his books. He selects one and flips through it, marking his place with a bit of ribbon, looking satisfied.

"What do you want from this Illyria?" Sif asks, creasing the paper and putting it into her pocket.

"A word," Loki says. "Nothing more."

"Nothing less," Sif rejoins. "This must be a word of some worth."

Loki looks at her with half-lidded eyes. "To those with ears to hear and tongues to speak."

"I have both," Sif says. 

"Ah, but there's the difficulty," Loki says. "You, my lady, are worthy of trust. You will bring me my word, on your honor, because you retain that hallowed quality."

"And your honor, Loki?" she asks.

"Gone," he says cheerfully, "as is the way of all things. Have no care for my honor; I lost it long ago."

"Many lost things are found in strange places," Sif says. "You may find yours."

"Strange places," Loki muses. "Strange places indeed. I may find my honor in a lady's eyes, perhaps."

"In a world beyond imagining," Sif says, giving her tongue an edge. She knows how Loki relishes a challenge.

"Not in Illyria's," Loki tells her. "Alas for her sweet loveliness." 

"If not Illyria, I know not what lady might be so enchanted," Sif says. "Unless she were enchanted."

"You wound me," Loki says, flinging himself into a chair. 

"Would that I had," she muttered to herself.

"Away, Caesario," Loki says. "Your light won't wait." 

\+ + + + 

The nights slide past in a drift of dreamy words, twelve of them. Sif is half-hoarse from declaiming to her rapturous audience, and half-exhausted from sifting through poetry and fragments of memory, trying to remember the moments that she shared with Loki, the reasons his words strike such chords in her. She looks forward to knocking on his door now, the firm rap of Caesario's knuckles, the weighty crinkle of paper. Loki's green gaze settles over her like light through leaves, ever-changing. He wants something, she thinks, when he watches like that, but she has not discovered it yet. She takes each new page and renders it in Caesario's tenor, letting the words float up like scented smoke, catching hold of the phrases that dizzy her. Each night there is something new that resonates: a fragment of praise, a line from an old song they sang together, a deft allusion to a favorite story.

Illyria too seems dizzied and dazzled, her lips parted and her eyes gleaming. Sif gazes up at her. Illyria is lovely. Loveliness has never been enough for Loki. Even after hours of verse after verse, Sif cannot guess what Loki seeks, and she is weary, the long bones of her legs aching gently, her neck sore from gazing up at the pretty silhouette of Illyria against the torchlight.

"Lady, I have poured out my heart," she says. "Will you not speak?"

"My lord, what is there to say?" Illyria asks. 

"A word," Sif says, having memorized her script. "A single word, from your lips to my ear."

"I must speak it in your ear," Illyria says. "Such a word must not be heard by any other than my lord Caesario." 

"I would wish nothing else," Sif says. She has been a sturdy enough goat in Loki's plot until now; here is the pivot of his plans, when all may be lost or won. "Shall I come up, lady?"

"My lord in my lady's chamber?" Illyria says, pretending to be shocked, but the smile that curves her lips says something else entirely. "No, gentle Caesario. I'll come to you, if you'll bide a moment."

"I will," Sif assures her. "As long as you wish."

"Oh, my lord, don't make such promises," Illyria says, and disappears from the balcony. Sif drops off the bench and sits on it instead, resting her feet. After a few minutes, Illyria is there, the silk of her dress rustling over the stones of the garden path. 

"My lord Caesario," she says, tipping her head as if to imply a curtsey.

"My lady Illyria," Sif says in her lord's voice, catching Illyria's outstretched fingers in hers and brushing a kiss over the knuckles. She has been so long at court that the manners are ingrained in her, though she has not often had the chance to practice them from the other side. 

"Shall I speak a word in your ear?" Illyria asks.

"Nothing would please me better," Sif says. 

Illyria steps close, her hand settling quite naturally on Sif's hip, her lips brushing Sif's ear as she speaks a word that crackles like parchment, or like flames, or like the crust on old snow. Sif isn't certain. The word rests in her mind as if it has a life of its own. She wonders how Illyria held it so long, when the word longs to be spoken. Magic. She ought to have known.

"Thank you, lady," she says.

"And now, my lord, you'll come no more, I think," Illyria says. 

"I'll come," Sif promises, because there is nothing else to say.

"No," Illyria says. "I beg you not to. That will save us both the disappointment when the garden is empty and my lord nowhere to be found."

"Very well," Sif says, because there is nothing else to be said. 

"I have been too long at court," Illyria says, letting her fingers trail down Sif's arm. "But what delights I have found here."

"Peace, lady," Sif says, and means it sincerely. She has grown fond of Illyria, these past nights. Strange that as the goddess of war, the sweetest gift she can think to give is a token she would never take for herself, but such is the way of the worlds. She has been nothing more than an illusion, handsome among the roses, her hair braided and tucked under, her face shadowed.

"There will be other words, my lord," Illyria says with wry certainty. "There are always more words. Perhaps you and I shall meet again, in another garden, on another night."

"I wish it," Sif says. 

"Good night, my lord Caesario," Illyria says. 

"Good night, lady Illyria," Sif says, and feels a faint pang to see her leave. The word speaks itself in her mind and she comes back to the moment. She must take the word to Loki before the magic starts to work itself. At the thought of Loki, she feels a sharper pang, a hook through her heart, as if the loops and lines of his words have snagged in her soul.

She waits until Illyria has vanished before striding off toward the palace, her boot heels heavy on the paving stones. Loki's door swings open almost before she touches it and there he is, easy in shirt sleeves and breeches, a smile glinting in his eyes.

"Well met, Caesario," he says. "How goes the hunt?"

"I have run your quarry to ground," Sif says. 

"Indeed," Loki says, almost as if it is a question. "Did you show her your sword?"

"Hush," Sif tells him, and tugs him close. She brushes his ear with her lips, as Illyria did to her, and lets the word slip between them. Loki's eyes widen.

"Well met indeed," he says in a low, satisfied voice. "What a word to speak." 

"It might twist tongues," Sif agrees. She crosses her arms over her bound-flat chest. "And what will you give me for such a word, mischiefmaker?"

"A reward?" Loki says, pretending astonishment. "Surely a job well done is reward enough. You lost our bout."

"You know well I let you win," Sif says, challenging him with her eyes. 

Loki smirks. "I lay traps, my lady. I caught a worthy prize."

"And your prize did worthy work," she says, "and deserves a prize of her own."

"Very well," Loki acknowledges. "Claim your boon, my lady, as you will."

She reaches out with one hand to catch his chin, turning his face toward her. "You led me a merry chase."

"How so?" he asks, but the sparkle in his eyes tells her she's right.

"Old songs, half-forgotten," she says. "A thousand words you said to me, that only I might hear. Repurposed into poetry, that I might woo another in your stead, but magician, I know you."

"You cast the spell upon yourself?" he suggests.

"As you intended," she says. 

"Two birds with one stone, as the Midgardians say," Loki says, smug, his chin still caged in her fingers. 

"And which did you seek with more fervor?" Sif asks. "The woman or the word? The lady or the enchantment?"

"Why should I not seek both with equal dedication?" Loki asks. "The woman no less worthy than the word, and no less magical."

She blushes, absurdly. "I knew you had a silver tongue, but I did not think you might use it against me."

"Oh, lady," he says, his voice low, "how I have longed to use my tongue against you." The import in his words sends a shiver down her spine. 

"I claim your tongue as my prize," she says, warmer than the fire explains.

"It is yours," Loki says.

Sif leans forward and lets her lips brush his, and even the gentle touch strikes sparks between them. There is magic there, in words unspoken, in the echo of open mouths and the lithe hot strength of tongues. She claims him, and they rewrite each other, line after line until each gesture rings true, and they are bare to each other, and with each other, lost in the poetry that two bodies can make.

"Lady," he says after, "the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses." 

She laughs, warm and contented. "Shall I stand in the garden then, among the roses, and woo you with my eyes?"

"That would be a prize beyond contemplation," he says.

"But as Caesario or as Sif?" she asks. "Whose eyes might sway you sooner?"

"As your whimsy takes you," he says. "You might have my tongue regardless." 

"Give it to me, then," she orders, and he does, and Sif, who never dreamt of magic, has discovered herself enchanting. She speaks, and her magician obeys, and around them the perfume of roses and warm skin rises with the smoke from the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Based of course on Shakespeare's _Twelfth Night_ , in which a woman named Viola dresses as a man and calls herself Caesario and ends up wooing a woman sort of by accident, who later falls in love with Viola's twin brother Sebastian anyway. Illyria is the name of the land in the play, but it sounded more Asgardian than Olivia. I've taken a few liberties, but my feeling is nobody is too bothered about sexuality in Asgard.


End file.
